Winter calls her like the tide,
a gradual, compelling sound,
and soon arrives his lovely bride,
a feisty thing renowned.

Yet she brings in burning hues
that stain the winter's cold,
and soon a red and golden bruise
the winter dost behold.

Bitter winds and raging storms
swirl anger and desire,
and cold breaks out of acrid norms
with heated words and fire.

And she subsides, the timid thing,
and reigns her temper in,
but winter's in a raging swing
and can't hear over his din.

Blizzards freeze, and she can't thaw
the ground with her warm breath.
Her husband's rage puts her in awe,
and winter brings her death.